Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
by LadyofHuntingandHobbits
Summary: Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. Based off the beautiful poem by Elizabeth Frye. Post Reichenbach. John is trying to live without Sherlock, but how long can he last? Johnlock. Oneshot, twoshot if requested soon to be in progress


**Alright, so since I am living in America, I just saw the Reichenbach Fall episode of Sherlock on Sunday and I have been an absolute train wreck since then. I was doing absolutely everything I could to keep it together while I was watching the episode itself because my parents were beside me and don't understand my obsession with Sherlock (or anything else I am emotionally attached to). My dad kept saying "Shannon, it's just a **_**show**_**." My obvious reply was a sobbing "No, it's **_**not!**_**" Oh lord, Sherlock has ruined me and turned me into an emotional mess.**

**Anyway, I was at the chorus concert for my school (which I was in) and the advanced choir sang a song called "In Remembrance" and by the ending line I was virtually bawling because it reminded me so much of Sherlock, and how we know he did not truly die. I imagined Sherlock singing or saying it to John, and there came the tears. But then I simply could not get it out of my head, especially after seeing the Reichenbach Fall. This fic is the product of that. Enjoy, and know that I cried while writing most of this.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the poem/song I used. Sherlock belongs to Sir Conan Doyle and the show to its evil, sadistic writers. The poem "Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep" was written by Elizabeth Frye, and it was adapted into the song "In Remembrance" by Eleanor Daley. **

**Enjoy, and please review**

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_**Do not stand at my grave and weep,**_

John never imagined that one day he would be standing here, mourning Sherlock. His Sherlock. As the tears ran down his face, and the memories that they shared together threatened to overwhelm him, John could only see Sherlock's face. When he was happy, when he was sad. When he used that "we both know where I'm going with this" face that was usually so annoying. When he was shocked, scared, frightened. But through it all, he remained one person. Sherlock. His Sherlock.

_**I am not there; I do not sleep.**_

John prayed and wished against all hope that Sherlock was not really dead, that he would open his eyes and that face would be there watching him. He wanted one more miracle. One more feat. One more chance to see Sherlock again. _Please don't be dead. _John had run through all the ideas in his head of how Sherlock could have survived, but nothing ever stood out. Still, he held onto the insane hope that one day, he would turn around and not be alone. That Sherlock would come back to him, His John.

_**I am a thousand winds that blow,**_

It was windy at Sherlock's grave today. It had only been 5 weeks, and John still felt the absence from his life like Sherlock had been taken from him the day before. A gaping hole was left in his life; in his soul. What do you do when half of you is removed? John thought back to the flat. He hadn't been there since… since Sherlock fell. He could still remember the familiar scent of it; of Sherlock. Sometimes he almost thought me could smell it in the wind, standing in the cemetery.

_**I am the diamond glints on snow,**_

Christmas was supposed to be a happy time. John found it very hard to be happy. Not even Sarah could cheer him up. The only place he wanted to be was with Sherlock. Sometimes Ms. Hudson would find him there in the cemetery, staring at the headstone like it was the only thing left in the world to him. He found a priceless silence and peace when he was there, ironic as it was. It was the one place where he could let out all his feelings, even if all he wanted to do was sit there and weep. Today, there was a soft blanket of snow on the ground. A White Christmas. It was actually a beautiful day, with the sun reflecting off the snow. It reminded him of Sherlock's eyes; the way the glinted in the firelight. The gleam they acquired when he had an idea. The warmth in them when he looked at John in a quiet moment, neither one needing to say a word. John blinked and looked away from the blinding white. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he whispered. Surely it was his imagination that heard a soft reply of "Merry Christmas, John."

_**I am the sun on ripened grain,**_

It was another beautiful day. John supposed most people would be pleased. No, he found little pleasure in the gorgeous day. Today was that day he had decided to return to the flat. It was exactly as he left it. As Sherlock had left it. The sun streamed in through open blinds and soaked the carpet in warmth and light. It looked as if Sherlock could come busting in through the door any second, getting ready to tell him about a new case. John stared at the two chairs facing each other, as they always had. Dust motes floated through the air on their sunlight rays. John could not tear his eyes from Sherlock's chair. _You have no idea how much I miss you._

_**I am the gentle autumn rain.**_

It was raining. Usually, John didn't visit the cemetery when it was raining. But this day, the rain was relaxing. It was September, and the leaves were already their beautiful fall colors. He was walking, enjoying the feel of the rain falling on his head. John remembered once when he and Sherlock were chasing someone and it started raining. Of course, that had been on a cold, bleak winter day. No, today was perfect. John stood beside the grave and let the rain caress his face… just as someone else once had.

_**When you awaken in the morning's hush**_

John woke with a start. He tried to remember what had woke him up, or even what had happened in his dream. The only thought in his brain was _Sherlock._ John was startled. He hadn't dreamed in weeks, months even. He looked around, but nothing seemed out of place at first glance. The clock read 3:40 am, far too early to try waking up. He went to lie back down, but then noticed the note on his bed. "Keep your eyes on me" it read. He nearly screamed in fright. Only one person could have sent it. And that thought thrilled and terrified John Watson more than anything in his life.

_**I am the swift uplifting rush**_

When he woke up, John could barely remember what had happened that morning. The note was gone. He went to Sherlock's grave immediately, hoping once again beyond reason that he would find something else. He could see nothing different. Slightly disappointed, he knelt down and picked up the flowers he had placed there the day before, then slowly put them back. Everything was the same. He heard a sharp crack, like a branch cracking, and wheeled around; adrenaline pumping.

_**Of quiet birds in circling flight.**_

The sound came from behind a tree, and the birds nesting in that tree were startled into flight. He practically ran to the tree and circled around it, searching for the source of the mysterious sound. Once again, there was nothing. He closed his eyes, shoulders heavy with disappointment. What had he expected? For Sherlock to run out from behind the tree and say "surprise"? He mentally berated himself for getting his hopes up. _Keep your eyes on me. _John tilted his head back and studied the birds, still flying away. They were dark. The color of Sherlock's coat.

_**I am the soft star-shine at night.**_

A month later, John stood in the same spot, staring up at the stars like they could offer some kind of answer. He had been pondering the meaning of the note for a long time, running each word through his head and searching for an explanation. He was trying to move on, to resume some semblance of a normal life. But what could be normal without Sherlock? What could be normal when half of you is gone? For that was what Sherlock was, and John was: half of a whole. They were one. John felt tears sting his eyes when he remembered looking at the stars and talking about astronomy with Sherlock, never letting him forget that the Earth revolved around the sun. Such sweet memories. John felt as if they were scattered across the glittering sky.

_**Do not stand at my grave and cry,**_

He always returned here, to Sherlock. It was a sweet pain of being near him, of being near the other half of you but not being able to see or speak to him. Because he is dead, for all intents and purposes. No, John had not given up hope. Hope was what kept him from jumping off his own building and ending all this pain. Hope was what kept him alive. But, as far as he knew, Sherlock was dead. Tears fell. He had tried to move on, but it had not worked. You could not ignore a heart that had not only been broken, but removed completely. And so the tears came, because he could not hold them back any longer.

_**I am not there; I did not die.**_

John knelt to the ground and sobbed. He had tried to hold it together for so long. Now he realized that there was no future for him without Sherlock. It was pointless. It was… hopeless. _Keep your eyes on me._ John had found little reminders of Sherlock in everything around him. It was torture. Every minute of every day. How long could he go on?

_Sherlock's heart broke with every tear John cried. John had never seen him standing here, though that snapped branch a few weeks ago had cut it close. He knew that John could not last much longer. The note, reminiscent of their last conversation, was intended to give John some hope, telling him to not let go. But it had not worked. Sherlock had died to save John, but now he feared that John would kill himself. And that was something he could not allow to happen. No matter what, John could not die. Because Sherlock knew he could not survive on this Earth without his other half._

When John could not cry any more, he stood numbly and stared at Sherlock's headstone. There was only one thing he felt he could do. Only one way to end the pain. He had made up his mind.

_Sherlock approached his best friend, his love. His John. All attempts to be silent were gone. He had to save John from himself._

John froze. He knew those footsteps. They were coming toward him, and he could not even move to turn around, terrified that it was not real, that he was imagining it.

_Sherlock stopped and stared at John's back. What do you say in a situation like this? "John." His voice broke before he was even finished, choked with emotion._

John closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that it was just his imagination. The steps moved towards him again and he could feel warm breath on the back of his neck. "Oh, Sherlock. Please tell me I'm not dreaming." There was no response. "I missed you. So much."

"_I know."_

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This is my first Sherlock fic, so please let me know how I did.

I would be open to a second chapter, more like a continued reunion or whatever reviewers request; just let me know.

I truly hoped you enjoyed this, as I poured my heart and soul (though mostly tears) into it.


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